Back to London…

On my last morning in Paris, I slept in til all of 8 am. The morning started out with that crisp feeling that belies the coming of winter, but it warmed up quickly to a sunny 60-something degrees. My train was set to leave at three in the afternoon, which was something of an awkward time, since I had to be out of the hotel at 11 am. I didn’t want to go too far because of the time constraint (and because I had given all but one of my remaining Metro tickets to Anne, since I dragged her all over town last night), so I stayed in Montmartre. I went back up to Sacre Coeur, though I figured at that time on a Sunday morning, tourists wouldn’t be welcome in a cathedral. But it was open, though fairly quiet, so I went in and wandered around. At the statuette of Mary and the baby Jesus, I lit a candle and set it with the others on a stand outside the pews. Not because I’m particularly Catholic, or Catholic at all, but because some days it seems like there’s a lot to pray for.

I left the church and walked back around to the Place de Tertre and got a second breakfast of - what else? - a crepe, though I skipped the chocolate version this time. From there I took the slow route back toward the hostel, stopping at every corner to enjoy the view. This part of the city, despite its touristy aspects, has an old-town look with narrow streets and cobblestone passageways; every corner is a picture of past and modern mixed into the urban landscape.

Not ready to give up and go sit at the train station for hours, I remembered that the Montmartre Cemetery was just down the street. Last time I was in Paris, I stayed near the Pere Lachaise cemetery, where famous people from Oscar Wilde to Edith Piaf to Jim Morrison are buried, and I remember how intriguing the old graveyard was, aside from the celebrity aspect, for its ancient headstones tumbling slowly back to the earth. Situated in part underneath a busy overpass that shadow the south end, the The Montmartre burial ground is less known for its famous graves (the most famous monument is that of Emile Zola, whose actual body was moved decades ago to a more lavish resting place), but it has that same feel of stories untold, of names and dates, but not rarely more than a hint of what passed between. Some are very plain, some once fancy but now in disrepair, but they all speak with an eloquence of stories told in the bare rock that marks the graves. From behind one hill of newer marble markers, a black cat peered at me, but shied with feral grace at any approaching steps. If I were superstitious I might find that eerie, instead all that struck me was the pure aesthetic of sleek fur against the polished stone.

I made my way on foot back to the hostel, and from there by Metro to the train station. I didn’t want to risk being late, so instead I arrived early and waited out the hour or so until my train departed. Soon the French countryside was passing rapidly by my window, and then the dark of the tunnel, and then back into the light of the far side of the English Channel. Things started to become familiar again - signs in English, slight changes in the look of the land. And then, London. Returning home seemed disjointing - I had become used to answering everything in broken French, to getting around on the Paris Metro, to walking along roads where drivers travel on the right side of the street. It seemed like a let-down, and I realized how quickly I become spoiled - oh, how boring, going home to London! But it was also nice to headed to the tiny studio I call home - at least, a quiet place to sleep tonight. I got off the train, boarded the tube, and was at my doorstep in twenty minutes.

Finally, home.